


Rope Drunk

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Ineffable Shibari [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Dom/sub, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fear of fire, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Rope Bondage, Shibari, just the ramblings of an ineffable bdsm expert, model Crowley, rigger Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Crowley is a mess of nerves and anxiety. So Aziraphale creates a rig that allows Crowley to confront his fears in the safety of a web that burns slowly and leads straight to Aziraphale's arms.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Shibari [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674700
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57
Collections: The Bond Zine





	Rope Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Written as my contribution for The Bond Zine.

“You’re drunk.” Aziraphale chuckles, puckering his lips so that they brush Crowley’s as he sways over his head. The creaking of the wooden beams he’s hanging from announce, _‘Two more ropes to go … two more ropes to go …’_

Aziraphale’s heart flutters.

Just two.

Once they’re done, Crowley will be free.

Still in his harness, but free from his suspension, and Aziraphale can hold him, feel the comfortable press of his bound body lying over his.

“’m not,” Crowley murmurs. “Haven’t had a sip of alcohol. Rigger’s rules.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Rope drunk, my dear.”

“Oh.” Crowley giggles, red faced and ridiculous. “Yeah. I am. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t be sorry. That’s exactly how I want you.”

Crowley drops infinitesimally closer, and Aziraphale leans up into the briefest of kisses.

A teasing glance.

Aziraphale calls this rig _The Starry Night._ It’sinspired by the greats - not just the riggers who mentored him in the art of bondage but all the mortal geniuses he’s met throughout time. With a touch of Da Vinci, a dash of Descartes, a smidgen of Michelangelo, it’s a masterpiece of engineering and design (if he does say so himself). Sixty ropes keep Crowley suspended, each branching out like the lines of a web, keeping their complicated pattern taut, and underneath each, a single candle set at precise intervals to burn through and release without snapping, lowering his model slowly, inch by inch over the course of an hour. The lines create a tent that Aziraphale can lie underneath and gaze up at Crowley - the brightest star in his sky.

But with so much flame involved, his design wasn’t well received by his demon when Aziraphale first presented it. He knew it wouldn’t be, and that was part of the point. Crowley’s fear of fire plagues him day and night. It haunts him, gives him nightmares that rip him from his sleep with screams in his throat. He can’t escape it, and it doesn’t take much to set him off.

A fireplace.

A tiki torch.

A match.

A cigarette. 

Going outdoors had become a game of Russian Roulette. Aziraphale never knew what would trigger Crowley and what he’d be able to endure, so it was hard to prepare. Aziraphale needed to figure out a way to help Crowley face his fears - difficult since Crowley was so good at hiding from them.

Transforming into a snake to slip through the ropes, even though he doesn’t particularly like transforming, used to be his sure-fire method of escape, which is why Aziraphale added incentive in the form of a bright and shiny anal hook.

A bit of predicament torture to curb his squirming.

The ball on the hook isn’t all that big - not compared to some in their arsenal. Aziraphale doesn’t give his demon more to bear than he can handle. He chooses a size big enough to force Crowley to restrict his movements, but also one that would be terribly uncomfortable inside his body if he were to become a serpent. The thought of looking like actual bait on a fishing line gives Crowley the incentive to not try and wiggle away.

Re-position so he can hide.

Crowley knows their safewords, safe sounds, safe gestures. He knows he has the power to make it stop any time. And he has, once or twice. But the more Aziraphale strings him up this way, the more he’s gotten used to it, and not just the proximity of the flame, but the idea that it won’t hurt him because he has the power to turn it out.

And because Aziraphale is there to protect him.

When Aziraphale rigs him this way, no longer does he look down and see the simmering ruins of Aziraphale’s bookshop; hear the snap and crackle of dry paper turning to ash; feel a rush of madness at the thought that Heaven and Hell had conspired to kill his best friend.

The despair the thought of never seeing Aziraphale again brought, making Crowley wish he’d saved a drop of that Holy Water for himself.

“I am so proud of you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, reaching up a hand to wind his fingers in Crowley’s mane of red hair draped over him like a curtain of cool silk.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale scratches the nails of his free hand down Crowley’s chest, lightly marking the spaces between the ropes, connecting freckle to freckle as if they’re constellations. Another layer of rope singes and Crowley lowers even further. At this point, Aziraphale could wrap his arms around his demon and yank him free. Or begin worshipping him like this, mouth to cock, making use of the tension the remaining rope provides. But then he wouldn’t get the full experience of release for which he designed this rig.

That moment of completion when the final rope burns through.

And besides, patience _is_ a virtue.

Aziraphale glances at the flame searing through the last fraying strand of rope. He grins, the whole of his body ready to receive his lover. “And any moment now, I’ll show you how much.”


End file.
